


Welcome to the Real World

by GooberGamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Strangers to Lovers, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-03-20 04:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18985048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GooberGamer/pseuds/GooberGamer
Summary: ‘The real world’ is Marine Corps slang referring to civilian life after discharge.-(x)Or, Washington, new and struggling veteran, moves into a duplex where he has a strange and surly neighbor with a penchant for the color red.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic publication in ~7 years! This fic has been around 2-3 years in the works, and it's finally ready to start posting. Many thanks to Aryashi and another Tumblr user I've sadly lost contact with (please reach out if you recognize it) for plot assistance so long ago now! It didn't go to waste!
> 
> I hope you enjoy, and I appreciate all feedback! Second chapter will be out within 1-2 weeks!

It’s a sultry August day outside, and the Veterans Affairs Outreach Coordinator’s office isn’t much better. A box fan chugs along in the corner, only succeeding in stirring up the air around Wash’s legs as he sits stiff-backed in his chair across the desk from the paunchy adviser tapping away on his computer.

The man has been rambling on about service and medical history for some time, taking down details that could impact Wash’s benefits. Wash, for his part, answers the questions mechanically and leaves the system to decide his fate. His mind fades in and out like the heat waves shimmering outside the window. Everything major would already be tucked away in his file, accessible to the man. There’s no reason for Wash to drag up any gory details in his mind for what’s simply an excess of precautionary paperwork.

“...Alright,” the man says, “with all of that covered, let’s talk housing. You’re staying in a motel right now, right? Nothing permanent yet?” He waits for Wash to nod before continuing. “Within the past year, we’ve begun providing reduced-rate housing opportunities for vets on disability. You would qualify, so if you’re interested we can set up a tour of one of the duplexes this week and--”

“No, that sounds alright. I’ll take one.”

“Are you sure? It may be good to see the layout, meet the neighbors if anyone’s already moved into the other half. Your benefits could potentially cover some apartments in the area that aren’t under our management.”

Wash shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sure it’s fine.” He has nowhere in particular to go, so one roof over his head is as good as any.

The man pauses, but simply replies with another “alright,” before moving on. “The duplexes have all of the major appliances, built-in counters, et cetera, but are otherwise unfurnished. Do you have any furniture for it?”

“No.” Wash hasn’t been on this side of the ocean for more than small stretches in years, and had always stayed with teammates when doing so, so there’s nothing in storage to pick up.

The man nods, seeming more at ease with this dismissal than the previous. It’s likely a common enough circumstance for new vets. “Alright. You don’t have a car yet either, right? It will probably take a couple weeks for us to get the paperwork settled for you to move into a place, so during that time we can set up some days for you and me or one of the other coordinators to go and rent a U-Haul, stop at some places for you to pick out and purchase some furniture. Okay?”

“Sure, sounds good. Any day works for me.” Again, it hardly matters to him. But Wash plays it safe; he hasn’t just gotten himself out of the hospital only to be sent back with people fearing him a suicide risk if he expresses too much lack of concern for this transition. It’s just a far cry from what he’s used to, having to consider the appearance of end tables important. “Is that all you needed today?”

The coordinator pauses a long moment, seeming to evaluate Wash from over the desk. “Corporal, if you’re interested, there are groups around the state for veterans who have been through similar experiences. We can provide you transportation to chapter meetings, it could help--”

“I’m not a Corporal anymore. And thanks, but I’m fine.” His tone is carefully neutral. It’s been carefully neutral for weeks, always in the face of help he doesn’t want, or need.

The man nods, obviously not intent on pushing the matter. “Okay. If you ever decide you want to go, just give me a call and we’ll make it happen.” He slides Wash a business card, who pockets it without looking it over. “Otherwise, you’re good. I’ll be in touch within the next few days to figure things out for the move.”

Wash gives a perfunctory goodbye and leaves the office, putting all of the matters from his mind, though he can’t shake the feeling of the coordinator’s eyes following his back all the way down the hall.

\---

“You’ve got a pretty good place, been renovated since the last guy moved out West. Your neighbor’s been there a few months now. He’s...an interesting guy, but keeps to himself as far as I know. And if he makes too much noise even if you talk to him about it, just let me know,” the coordinator _(should have learned his name by now)_ tells Wash as he navigates a van along narrow backroads. There’s a cargo trailer hitched to the back filled mostly with boxes; besides the mattress and boxspring, Wash had chosen all build-your-own furniture. He has quite a nest egg built up from his years of active duty on top of VA benefits and loans, could have easily afforded to get some sturdy pre-built stuff, but he needs something to do with his hands, something to keep his mind sharp. When time isn’t floating around without any concern for him, the minutes drag painfully long.

Wash hums noncommittally at the coordinator’s comments; a little bit of noise from a neighbor wouldn't hurt. It’s better than the quiet. _Far_ better than the loud. 

He shakes his head before that line of thought can go too far, rolling the window down to let the warm breeze coast his skin. _There,_ there are the good memories, patrolling streets in armored cars, not active firefights, but the rare peaceful moments when they could cup the wind in their hands and watch the landscape pass by. Almost seemed like a vacation, sometimes, when he ignored the gun resting in his lap.

He’s pulled out of his reverie as the van rolls offroad into a gravel driveway, laid in a circle around the wide porch stairs of a two-story duplex, empty save for a worn red-and-white pickup he assumes belongs to his new neighbor. The house has pale yellow siding, with two doors on either side of the porch and a couple upstairs windows in each half visible from the front. Nothing too special, but Wash isn’t looking for special. Wash isn’t really looking for anything at all; he’d easily take “nothing in particular” so long as it has four standing walls.

While the day is young and the coordinator still feels limber, they focus on the heaviest items in the trailer, dragging in the bed, a flatscreen Wash had bought for white noise, a few tables of varying sizes, and a boxed-up sectional couch. A handful of other things follow it, some secondhand books purchased half at random and a small shelf for them, a bag of thrifted clothes, but there will still be plenty of empty space in the duplex by the time it’s all sorted. That’s fine with Wash. With mainly white walls and pale hardwood, it will look clean, austere. He’s seen enough grime to last him through at least this lifetime.

Wash is carrying one of the last small boxes up the porch steps when the other front door swings open wide, what’s presumably his neighbor tromping onto the porch to look him over. The man is a good fifteen years older than Wash at minimum, he’d guess. A few rugged scars line his face, one running through his gray hairline and leaving a patch missing in its wake. On the short end of the stick, but with his bulky shape and heavy stance, he’s built solid.

“You can stop right there! I don’t want whatever you’re sellin’, proselytizin’, abandonin’, or thinkin’ about TP’in’ my house with!” the man calls out to Wash, voice gruff with a southern twang.

Wash glances down at the box in his hands. “Oh, I’m not here for—I’m moving in, I’m your new neighbor.”

“Really? Ain’t been one in a while, since the last guy went AWOL.”

“Uh, yeah, I heard he moved out West?” Since the man on the porch seems to have stood down from his posturing, Wash supposes he’s in the clear. “I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Sarge,” his neighbor offers. “You?”

 _Sarge? Really?_ If Sarge lives in this housing, then he’s out of whatever branch he had formerly inhabited, so not much of a “sarge” anymore ( _Army? Air Force? Which ones use that nickname?_ ) and it’s a little odd to pull that on Wash, especially when there’s no confirmation that he was a lower rank.

Well, Wash can proffer the same level of distance, himself. He isn’t about to start demanding to be called “Corporal”, feels too untrue now that he’s here, but with the time and significance it had held, his codename still feels real. “Washington,” he replies, coolly.

Before either man can comment further, the coordinator steps out of the house, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of a hand. “Phew, alright, I think that should be the—Oh, hey, Sarge.”

_You call him Sarge too?_

“Stephen!” Sarge practically shouts over Wash’s thoughts, walking over to the coordinator. “Did’ja get my voicemails?”

“Yeah, Sarge, I got them.” The coordinator—Stephen—looks even more worn out just from that one question. “I don’t think we’ll be able to help fund construction on, uh, ‘an underground bunker with automated security’?”

“Damn cutbacks...Just take the money out of my life insurance!”

“You have term life. Nobody gets money unless you die. And cost isn’t the only reason—”

On that note, Wash decides to take his leave. Though Sarge doesn’t seem bothered with his nearby presence for the conversation, he isn’t sure that he’s supposed to be aware of the particulars of Sarge’s benefits. And frankly, he doesn’t really want to hear more of the ridiculousness that his new neighbor had in mind for their yard.

“Thanks for all of the help, Stephen. I’ll let you know if I need anything. Nice to meet you, Sarge.” He shuffles by them to his door, leaving Sarge to tangle the coordinator further in conversations on his ideas for doomsday prep and questions regarding if insurance companies realize he’s faked his own death, whether they could take their money back.

Inside his new home, it’s still, and quiet. A large part of Wash has been looking forward to this, the promise of a space where there’s no thunderous sounds or movements to split his head open, make his skin crawl; nothing unless he allows there to be. But as he stands in the entryway, Wash finds that there’s no big sigh, no settling moment as he inspects his new home. He finds he feels largely the same.


	2. Chapter 2

The first rain since Wash’s arrival to the house three days prior sees sheets of water falling to the porch steps. It takes him a couple of trips between the kitchen and the rest of the house to realize that what’s falling outside the front window is far heavier than the rain on his other two sides of the complex. Pulling on a jacket and braving the waterfall to reach the bottom of the stairs, he spies a gutter full to capacity with wet leaves, spilling what it can over the rim. Odd that there would already be so many in the summer.

Or perhaps not so odd. _Did Stephen say anything about gutter cleaning?_

Maybe. Wash’s guess is as good as anyone else’s; physically present he was for their meetings, mentally present? Not so much.

Well, there is someone he can ask now. Sarge has been living there for at least a few months already. He should have had an idea of what maintenance comes with the place.

At Wash’s knock, Sarge’s door swings open a few inches before stopping short, no fewer than three security chains holding it in place. He squints out the gap before recognizing Wash, his expression shifting to one...slightly less suspicious. “Washington.”

“Uh, hi.” Wash feels out of practice in conversations with _normal_ people, let alone a man who’s clearly a fair stretch beyond that. “The, uh, gutter’s overflowing, and I was wondering if they hire someone to do cleanings here?”

“Nope, that’s on us.”

Joy. At least it isn’t a one-person building. “Okay. Do you want to come out now to do it, or we can--”

“No can do,” Sarge interrupts, face impassive. “I don’t do heights.” And he promptly slams the door.

After giving it a long, incredulous stare, Wash walks back to his own side. He has some sense that even if he were to knock again and Sarge actually opened the door, the conversation wouldn’t get much further.

He climbs out an upstairs window onto the porch’s overhang with his makeshift gutter cleaner, a broom. The thought crosses his mind to leave Sarge’s half of the gutter untouched; it would probably still drain from Wash’s pipe, but he would get his point made either way. In the end, however, he brushes the rest of the leaves off the side of the porch. May as well get it while he’s up there instead of being a (well-deserved) asshole; there’s already one frustrating neighbor in the complex, there doesn’t need to be two.

\---

Routines are good. Routines are normal. Routines make Wash feel efficient with his time, as opposed to aimless with the amount of it he just can’t fill.

And routines mean that nothing is wrong, that everything can be expected because it is exactly the same as it has been. Wash of course would never lean on that, never let his guard slip, but it’s comforting all the same.

Get up at 6 (though waking up often happens earlier, not by his choice). Out of the shower by 6:30. Coffee on the porch by 7, before the summer heat bears down. Like clockwork. He’s maintained it for two weeks in the duplex now.

Except today, when Wash steps out with his drink, something is _wrong._ He senses, before he really sees, the moving shape out of the corner of his eye, and jerks his hand back, instinct ready to transform his mug of burning hot coffee into a weapon.

He pauses, thankfully, when the figure is fully in his line of sight; Sarge, sitting on a kitchen chair he must have dragged out, holding his own coffee mug. Apparently unaware of his near brush with second-degree burns, or at least ignoring it, he offers a gruff “morning, Washington,” as a casual greeting.

Wash mentally counts back from 5, straightening up as his heartbeat slows to somewhere within the range of normal. “...Hey, Sarge,” he finally replies, tone clearly conveying his confusion. “...What are you doing out here?”

“A man can’t drink coffee on his own front stoop?” Sarge squints at him, challenging.

_Not when you haven’t done it any time before now._ “I mean-- I-- Nevermind.” Wash doesn’t need the routine. Sarge doesn’t need to drink his coffee there either, but Wash can already guess who would more easily fold.

With a small “hmph”, Sarge nods, seemingly victorious in whatever nonsense he thought was going on. He takes a sip of his coffee, and after another moment of staring, Wash leans his elbows on the railing and imitates the action.

The two remain there, silently drinking and watching the road, until Sarge’s cup finally drains. He promptly stands up, nodding at Wash when the movement draws his eye, and returns to his apartment.

Wash doesn’t know what to make of it. Sure, not everyone lives on a schedule, but why change it up this particular day? There’s nothing special about it. It’s no cooler or hotter than usual. No more or less sunny.

_There’s no special reason he shouldn’t, either,_ he reminds himself. But the thought had still gnawed at him every time Sarge shifted and Wash had to work not to twitch.

It makes more sense--not much, but more--when the next morning, Sarge is back out there again.

\---

A little over a week more, and Wash has made tenuous peace with Sarge’s now daily presence during his morning coffee. They greet each other, and say goodbye when one or the other clears out, but not a whole lot is said in between. It would almost be easy to ignore him there once they’re settled in...if Wash isn’t growing more curious about Sarge, against his better judgement. 

He knows, logically, it’s the water in the desert phenomenon; beyond the cashiers who ring him up for his once-weekly grocery trips, he hasn’t had much engagement with people over the past month. While that’s by his preference, it still isn’t what he was previously used to, sleeping in tents or on floors packed with five or six other people he had been training with or fighting beside daily for years. However much of a closed door he is, Sarge is still a little bit of necessary human interaction.

Today is sticky-hot, even so early in the morning, and Sarge emerges after Wash, sporting a red tank top and a worn pair of cargo shorts.

“Washington.”

“Sarge.”

With formalities out of the way, Sarge settles into his chair. Wash intends to turn toward the road, hazy as the dew burns off the asphalt, but before he can something catches his eye. Though there is a rough-hewn scar on Sarge’s nearest shoulder, Wash’s eyes are drawn to a splash of color above it. Tattoos of military origin are typically recognizable in style alone, but this one in particular is startlingly familiar, with its similarity to the Recon Jack skull tattooed on Wash’s chest.

They aren’t a match, though, and Wash’s question is answered when he reads the banner script beneath it: ‘USAF Combat Control’.

“You were special ops,” Wash realizes aloud. He isn’t familiar with many standard military units outside of the Marines, but he has at least a passing knowledge of the high-level special operations forces he could have come across on collaborative assignments. The Air Force’s Combat Control Teams, trained on combat support and communication behind enemy lines, are one of them.

Sarge’s brow furrows at the sudden break in the silence, before he follows Wash’s line of sight to the tattoo. He huffs, as though disgruntled that Wash has somehow noticed something completely out in the open. “You’re damn right I am.”

The skull is surrounded by two curling wings, with a parachute in the backdrop. _I don’t do heights._ So either he had been lying to get Wash to clean the gutters alone...or there’s something significant there.

Not that it’s exactly his business. He plays it safe, asking, “how many jumps?”

“More than you.” 

Likely true. Definitely frustrating in its evasiveness. “I don’t recall mentioning what I did.”

“And I don’t recall making a guess! My answer still stands.” But it doesn’t take long for Sarge to start poking for more info. Perhaps Wash hasn’t been the only one curious. “You don’t get scars that big by paper pushing. Unless they’ve started handing out medals for paper cuts.”

Maybe Wash being straightforward in a gesture of goodwill will encourage it in his cagey neighbor. Besides, it’s not like he feels any inclination to hide the info Sarge is after. It’s his past, for better or for worse. “Marines. Force recon.”

Sarge grunts in reply, but his begrudging recognition seeps through. Wash had trained in spec ops as well, with an emphasis on reconnaissance, gathering intel deep within enemy territory. Though Sarge had probably parachuted more, as he’d said, it would have been for his role’s focus and his age. Wash has his own areas of greater experience he could claim. They’re on fairly equal footing, as far as things go.

“Awful young to be out of the game now, after all that training,” Sarge comments, another probe. Wash turns his attention to his coffee, now growing lukewarm; while he appreciates that he’s gotten Sarge talking, that isn’t first full-length conversation material by a longshot.

“You aren’t that old, yourself,” he finally evades.

Sarge barks a laugh at that, but apparently his own discharge isn’t first conversation material either, because he drains the last of his coffee and waves Wash goodbye for the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the positive feedback so far, I'm very grateful!! Sorry for the wait on this chapter, job searching so I've been busy, but I'll try to have the next one out earlier to make up for it - keep an eye out for it within the next week and a half!
> 
> Sarge's shoulder tattoo: [[x](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/ba/df/d6/badfd63aa74243491c9e276f9fa7bfe1.jpg)]  
> Wash's chest tattoo: [[x](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/5b/2a/cf/5b2acfc827b099b88d481e44d4d358b6.jpg)]


End file.
